


Anima Vinctum

by cleighc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Dark Magic, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-01 03:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13989834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleighc/pseuds/cleighc
Summary: Hermione is forced to fight for her soul, and the unanticipated person attached to it.





	1. Corpus Sine Pectore (A Body Without a Soul)

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to state as a general disclaimer, that I do not own Harry Potter, and any similarity to other characters both real or fictional is entirely coincidental. 
> 
> Also, please let me know what you think. Kudos and reviews are unbelievably encouraging. It is actually rather easy to guilt-trip me into updating more frequently, and I have just given you permission to do so.

  **Chapter 1: Corpus Sine Pectore (A Body Without a Soul)**

 

* * *

 

 Margaret Wright had just started work at Wool’s Orphanage last Tuesday, and already she had her hands full. She had expected to be assigned something small to start out with; reading to schoolchildren, or watching them during their brief periods outdoors. Instead she was given an ear-full about the “percentage method”, and shown how to properly mix cow’s milk with water, cream, cod liver oil, and a touch of sugar. This was, apparently, extremely important to their patrons, and Mrs. Cole did her best to accommodate them.

Margaret was then shoved into a square room filled with at least two dozen cribs, with a blanket in one hand and a bottle in the other.

She braced herself against the noise. Many were crying, a couple of older infants screaming and shoving themselves against the edges of the crib. She startled as the child next to her saw her standing there and made a racket she was convinced was unholy. Other babies saw her enter and did the same. She stood solidly for a few moments against the irritating cacophony of sound before she sprang into action. She really needed this job- no one else in her family was working. She would figure this out.

She took the child nearest to her into her arms, and nervously attempted to bounce it on her hip. What looked to be a he didn’t stop screaming, so she settled him into the crook of her arm and shoved the bottle and its rubble nipple into his mouth. It took a few minutes, but the sound around her settled some and she was able to take the bottle out without him getting upset. She turned him on her shoulder, padded his back with her fingertips a few times, and carefully put him back in the crib.

She quickly went to the next crying baby and did the same.

She wished she could say that after she had made a round, it was quiet. There was some odd chain-reaction, and one fussy infant seemed to wake everyone around them, until the screaming started all over again. She could barely afford to give any attention to the fussiest of infants, let alone the quiet ones. As she carted a squealing baby girl over her shoulder, she looked down at one of the few silent babes. The name attached to the front of the crib stated, “Tom Marvolo Riddle” in block letters.

He was a handsome baby, to be sure, with arresting dark eyes that peered at her over the top of his crib. She thought he may have been one of the infants that started to cry after she came into the room, but he had stopped some twenty minutes ago as she attended to the other infants. She considered, briefly, whether or not she should try to hold all of the infants, before her attention snapped back to the baby in her arms as the girl yanked on a few loose strands of hair.

They would be fine. They weren’t crying, right? To be honest, Margaret didn’t have much experience with children, having been brought up as an only child by an aunt and uncle after the death of her parents in the war. She could only assume that if they needed something, they would cry and let her know.

So she set a mental remainder to tie her hair back during lunch, shoved the nipple into the mouth of the baby girl, and steeled herself for another round.

 

* * *

 

 

The end of the war prompted a flurry of activity. There were funerals to attend. Trials. Homes and businesses needed to be rebuilt. And Professor McGonagall required passive-aggressive reminders that various students needed to sit the N.E.W.T.S. if they were to be able to move forward with their futures.

When it was approved that a test would be administered in December, Hermione's days became engrossed in a mad, frantic energy that bordered manic anxiety as she attempted to reread every textbook (and every other text of possible import) that she could get her hands on. Every hour was spent in an organized dash to review notes, make more notes, and attempt to ignore how nothing had improved since the end of the war. Attempt to forget how little she felt up to pursuing her schoolgirl dreams.

Because Hermione did not feel herself.

It was consuming. The distress that steadily built the longer she realized she was unable to feel the same relief as everyone else. The tension that settled into the cracks in her joints and coiled the muscles in her limbs, until she was ready to scrap the skin off her forearms with her fingernails just to relieve some of the pressure. The sense of fear that encouraged her to obsessively over-pack her beaded purse, and triple-check her wards every night. And a growing pain that seemed to originate somewhere in her chest that cut into her every time she wrote a sentence, bit into a sandwich, and got out of bed in the morning.

Unfortunately, Hermione did not feel comfortable disclosing any of this to her friends. Harry would always be near and dear to her heart, but he had gone through so much. He still suffered from night terrors, and his reflexes bordered paranoia, but she could tell he was happier. Whether it was playing Quidditch with Ron or snuggling on a couch with Ginny, she could tell he was coming to terms with peacetime and she did not want to burden him with the fact that she did not feel the same.

And Ron. How had things ended up this way? How could she possibly confess that she had only kissed him because destroying Hufflepuff’s cup had left her feeling a loss so substantial that she was desperate to establish a connection with anyone? Feeling guilty, she had tried _so_ hard after the war to reconnect with him. In between trials and funerals, she attempted to cling to his broad chest, snogging him as if she could regain her feelings for him by force. But he noticed that she couldn’t quite reciprocate. She didn’t let him take her virginity, despite the various times she initiated intimacy. She didn’t say that she was in love with him, despite the fact that she _knew_ Ron needed those words to hold him together after the death of his older brother and the trauma that was the war.

When he questioned her after another aborted attempt to have sex, it had turned into a fight. Which wasn't exactly surprising.

“Why, Hermione? You start kissing me and touching me, and then you push me away like the thought of me inside you disgusts you! I want to make love to you! What's wrong with that?”

Hermione ignored him as she pushed her shirt back down over her stomach and buttoned her jeans. She started heading towards the door; she felt dirty and guilty, and was desperate for some space if only to distract herself and separate from these ugly feelings.

“Wait a second! Where are you going? I’m trying to talk to you!” Ron took several steps forward and grabbed her wrist, before swinging her back so that she faced him. “Well?” he asked, his face red with indignation.

Hermione knew she needed to tell him the truth, but she also knew that admitting to her sudden apathy would cause a lot of hurt feelings and effectively end their relationship. And ending her relationship with Ron would be charged enough that it would more than likely end their friendship. Years of her life she had spent enjoying him for his sense of humor and his warm affection. And she had so few friends. She knew it was selfish of her to lead him on, but she didn’t understand what was wrong with her and was desperate for comfort. She thought she had wanted him for years; why were things turning out this way? Why couldn’t she just get over the anxiety, and the depression, and the pain? Why were they still present? Shouldn’t he make those feelings better?

She didn’t have a lot of experience with relationships, and she knew that she was probably overestimating her expectations, but should she really feel so empty?

Ron impatiently squeezed her wrist, and Hermione winced at the pain. She took a deep breath trying to calm her rising panic. Despite the fact that she knew it was wrong to lie to him, this kind of life-altering decision was overwhelming to make. She was afraid. Afraid to be alone, but afraid to take a step forward without being positively sure that it would work out for the better.

But he was pushing her to make a decision right now.

She wasn't ready.

“Ron, let go, you’re hurting me.”

“Not until you tell me what's going through your head. Why are you acting this way?”

“Ron, I want to leave, let me go!”

“No! Talk to me! We've been after each other for years, Hermione. And it will be perfect! We can get married. Our kids and Harry and Ginny’s kids will play with each other and go to school with each other. I’ll even let you work at the Ministry and get a career like you’ve always wanted! This will work!”

Hermione didn’t know how to respond to that. He would _let_ her have a career? As if she needed his permission? But her first inclination when pushed to make a decision she wasn’t ready for was to react defensively. And while she wasn’t known for her rash decision-making, she tended to let her mouth go when she was in a temper.

“Ron, I don’t think I’m ready for anything like that!”

“Well, yeah, but soon right? Me and Harry have already been contacted by the Ministry, and we're set to start Auror training in October. So maybe we could get married in September? I’ll be real busy once I start working, and this way everything will be fine just in case you get pregnant.” He rambled this off in obvious excitement, and his broad smile displayed all the confidence in the world. “That’s why you’ve been like this, right? I talked to Mum about it, and she said it was because you needed a sign of commitment. Well, I'm committed! I don’t have the ring yet, but I should have it soon, so no problem, right?”

Hermione froze. And then immediately felt nauseous in the wake of his proposal. She had to stop herself from hyperventilating as anxiety tore through her body, physical pain in its tracks. Did she have to make that decision right now? She wasn’t prepared! And while the picture he painted of their red-headed children playing behind the Burrow sounded like everything she had wanted since she was fourteen, there was so much she couldn’t ignore. What about her ambitions? Her life plan? And the presumption. They had only been dating for a couple of months! They fought all the time as teenagers, how was she to know that this would work the way he wanted?

And this was ignoring her most obvious concern regarding the flippancy of her feelings.

As the silence continued, Ron’s grin faltered and his grip tightened.

“Yes?” he suggested with less confidence.

“Ron…” she started to say, before Ron shoved her arm back.

“No?” he asked as his face started to turn red again. “Why not?”

Hermione started to breath more heavily as she backed up into the door. She couldn’t do this right now, she couldn’t, and the nausea and pain were making her want to vomit. She swallowed nervously as she rubbed the spot where he had gripped her arm.

“I can’t…” she started to say, but she was cut off as Ron took another step forward.

“Why not?!” he practically screamed in her face.

She snapped, and screamed back, “Because I can’t, Ron! I don’t feel the same way! I don’t feel happy, or in love! I feel sick all the time! Nervous and in pain, and I don’t know why! And I can’t share your confidence, Ron! We fight all the time! And how do I know you will be there when it gets difficult?! You left, Ron!”

He looked like he’d been slapped. He took a few deep breaths, before saying with a hint of a whine, “I came back! I tried so hard to come back! Isn’t that more important?”

“I can’t, Ron,” Hermione stated again, barely more than a whisper as she hugged her arms into her chest.

His expressions seemed to change for a solid minute before settling on a sneer. “Fine. We are through.”

He flew out the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Moments passed. Then Hermione sank to the floor holding her head in her hands as a cold streak of dread sank through her body. Not mindful of the tears warming her cheeks and salting the corners of her mouth. What should she do now? She knew there was no turning back; there was no way Ron would so easily forgive such an insult to his pride. But what now? Without her friends, because she had no doubt that Ron was on his way to speak to Harry about what had happened…

She sat there long enough for her breathing to settle and her legs to cramp and grow cold on the floor. But even as her body grew stiff, her mind remained restless, conjuring images of condemnation and rejection.

Her despondent musings were interrupted by a firm knock on her door. She got unsteadily on her feet and opened the door, resigned to her fate. Then stood in surprise as she realized who was actually at her door.

“Luna?”

Luna was smiling tiredly as she pushed her way inside and made herself comfortable on the couch, earrings made of rusty washers clanging slightly from the momentum. A twitch of her wand and the door closed. “Hermione?” she suggested, her hand gesturing to the tea set on the coffee table. Hermione felt her eyebrows and forehead wrinkle in consternation, before she sighed, picked up the tea tray, and headed to the kitchen to brew some tea.

Someone else knocked on the door while she was still heating the water, and she heard Luna get up to answer it.

“Harry!” she heard Luna exclaim, before answering his upset, muffled inquiries. “Yes, Hermione is here, but now is not the time to speak to her. She is dealing with some issues right now, and is not in the right state of mind.”

There was another muffled assertion, and Hermione was reasonably sure she heard Ron’s name, before Luna responded. “I have no idea what happened with Ron. I’m talking about the state of Hermione’s soul.”

Harry’s, “What?” was easier to make out as Hermione robotically measured out loose leaf black tea, feeling a sense of suspense settle from her torso down to her fingertips. Her soul? Was there something wrong with her soul?

Luna continued. “A disruption of the soul is usually difficult to see, I understand, but I couldn’t ignore the slupnotts I saw migrating to her chest the last time she was at Hogwarts. They usually fester in cracks the soul makes when performing the darkest of magic, and I have seen them before on Death Eaters. But they are all over Hermione, so I fear something dreadful must have happened.”

The door must have been pushed open further, because Hermione could make out, “Luna, what are slupnotts?” quite clearly. She unwrapped a container of biscuits and poured them onto a tray.

“Slupnotts? They look like maggots, and they have a tendency to eat the edges of a broken soul. Daddy says they cleanse the break and allow for the edges to heal, but if there are too many they can actually eat away at the soul. I think that is what is happening to Hermione. I’ve never seen so many- except on Voldemort, of course, but I figured that was a given.”

There was a moment of silence before Luna stated, “In any case, I need to figure out what is going on. You’ll have to come back later.” She closed the door on Harry as he recovered and attempted to ask another question. The door shut with some noise, and Hermione could hear Luna resettle on the couch before she carried the tea tray out of the kitchen. There was a juggle on the doorknob and a couple of bangs that let Hermione know Luna had locked the door, before silence.

“Slupnotts?” Hermione asked.

She didn’t know how to feel- she was caught between relief that she wouldn’t have to argue with Harry, a familiar sense of dread and anxiety that pulled at her suspicions, and the skepticism that typically followed Luna’s outlandish claims.

“Mmhmm,” Luna hummed, before taking a long ascertain look at Hermione as if she could ferret out her concerns with her gauze alone. “And they seem to be getting worse,” she stated. A thought that caused her brow to crease, and premature stress lines became visible on her forehead. 

Hermione frowned as she sat opposite of Luna in an upholstered chair. “Where did you hear about this, again?”

Luna paused and tilted her head. Then she ignored the question and asked, “How do you feel?”

Hermione felt taken aback. When was the last time that someone had asked her that question? She tried to be honest without sounding melodramatic. “Tired. Anxious. Unsettled. Depressed.”

Luna got herself of a cup of tea, and peered at Hermione over the edge of the lip. “What does your anxiety feel like?”

Hermione let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Like every muscle in my body is tensing for something that has yet to happen. Like my chest is in knots, and I’m somehow trapped in my skin, until I want release so badly I’m tempted to scratch the skin on my forearms off with my fingernails. Like nothing is going to go right, and I am somehow not right, and suddenly I can’t breathe….” Hermione had to take a moment to force herself not to hyperventilate.

Luna watched with a frown. “Tea?” she suggested, and Hermione bent over to get herself a glass. “And Ron?” she asked, watching intently as Hermione froze and seemed to force herself to pour a glass.

“He decided that we should no longer be together,” Hermione stated with a bland face, resting the tea cup on her knee so that her hand would stop shaking. Luna just tilted her head again, before giving her own soft sigh.

“When did these feelings start?” she asked, taking a sip.

“The Final Battle,” Hermione stated, somewhat glad to get away from thinking about Ron. She wasn’t ready to properly digest the implications of that interaction, so her immediate concern was finding something else to think about. Although considering the ruined state of her soul did little to assuage her of worry.

“Did you perform any of the Unforgiveables during the battle?” Luna asked without any inflection, and Hermione got the feeling that if she had, she wouldn’t face any judgment from the girl sitting across from her.

“No,” Hermione stated, shaking her head before tightening the hold she had on her teacup. Almost, she admitted to herself, but something had always stopped her. Although truthfully she couldn’t state whether or not that was because of moral principles, an instilled sense of self-righteousness, or because she didn’t want to risk jail-time.

“What other exposures did you have to dark magic during the battle?” Luna asked, picking up and nibbling on a biscuit.

Hermione did not need to spend any amount of time thinking about it. “I destroyed a horcrux with basilisk venom,” she stated, looking at her wrist where drips of the venom had burned into her skin as she had attempted to shove it into the cup. They appeared as splotches of white that spread out and blotted in the shape of tiny stars.

Luna frowned again. “But that wasn’t the only horcrux you were in contact with, right?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, I wore Riddle’s locket for a few months last fall.”

“But that exposure didn’t make you feel this way?”

Hermione clenched her teeth as she recalled how she felt wearing the locket. It made her feel warm, actually, which was unsettling. But she convinced herself that the ease and comfort she felt from the locket was Riddle’s attempt to put her in a false sense of security, similar to Riddle’s tactics in the Diary. And then he opened up his mouth through those creepy suggestive whispers, and her irritation with his arrogant, belligerent, confrontational attitude overrode any pleasant feelings she had. Which was for the best.

But wearing it- and its destruction- did not bring this hollowed emptiness or anxious nervousness. She shook her head.

Luna’s mouth puckered. “Any other instances of exposure?” she asked, putting her teacup on the coffee table.

Hermione shook her head again as she stated a despondent, “No.” She grabbed a biscuit, and shoved the entire thing in her mouth. It was too dry, and Hermione didn’t wait to gulp down some tea.

Luna’s face was still pursed. “We should go to Hogwarts. One of the professors might know more about it.”

“About soul magic?” Hermione was doubtful that any of the professors still living could tell them very much. Other than Professor Dumbledore, and possibly Professor Snape, she couldn’t think of any other previous professors that might be half as well informed. In her research on Horcruxes she had discovered that Soul Magic was a rather obscure branch of magic, and that it was very often connected to Dark magic. “Not unless we can talk to the portraits.”

Luna immediately brightened. “The portraits! Of course! Let’s go now,” she stated as she jumped up, her earrings jingling as she threw a biscuit back on the tray without abandon. She started heading towards the door, before she noticed that Hermione had remained perched at the edge of her seat. “Hermione?” Luna asked.

Hermione did not want to get up. This entire enterprise sounded like a waste of time. She did not feel well, but that did not mean that the cause of her illness was something so unusual. This was normal right? She remembered reading about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a child in her parent’s house, and she knew depression and anxiety were typical responses in the face of trauma. And she definitely felt that getting tortured, watching her home of the last few years go up in flames, and losing her parents and friends counted as trauma. So wouldn’t going to Hogwarts be an over-reaction? And she was just so tired. She really did not want to do anything right now.

“I don’t see why I need to,” she told Luna with a stubborn set in her chin.

Luna tilted her head again. There were a few moments of silence before she acquiesced with a nod. “Alright. Well I hope you feel better Hermione.” She was out of the door in moments, and Hermione took an uncomfortable breath trying to remember if Luna had sounded upset or disappointed.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her- not necessarily. But that didn't mean she should go all the way to Hogwarts. And who was to say that this was because of her soul? Hermione frowned, looking at the closed door, and the abandoned biscuits on the coffee table.

Well, maybe she could take the time to look through her notes about Horcruxes again before she skipped dinner and went to bed. Hopefully tomorrow she would feel motivated enough to crack open her 7th year Arithmancy textbook. And perhaps a few texts about Soul Magic that she had thought to keep in her bag during last year’s escapades.

Just in case.

 

* * *

 

 

The next few months passed rather quickly. According to the Daily Prophet, there were several senior Death Eaters still at large, and more than a couple articles detailed hypothetical scenarios in which they had banded together to form some kind of resistant alliance in the Underground. Hermione openly scoffed at these conspiracy theories, sure that if there was some kind of organized resistance being formed, the death of innocents would have followed in its wake. Still, reading the imaginative, nefarious (and need she add, melodramatic) schemes while sipping on tea in the morning had become a welcome diversion from her otherwise busy study schedule.

Every time she thought about Ron tendrils of anxiety wound their way into her chest, so she did her best not to think of him. Harry had come back to visit at some point, but their conversation proved to be unproductive. He did not feel comfortable ousting his relationship with his soon to be brother-in-law, so their conversation consisted of skeptical speculation about Luna’s claims, and empty platitudes regarding their continued friendship. Both of them wanted to remain in contact, but they knew that it would be difficult to do. In the midst of her depression Hermione considered this the end- she had never really been a priority to Harry, so why would that change now? Why would she expect him to take her side, especially when he didn’t fully understand what was wrong with her? The hopelessness and sorrow she felt at losing Harry, when she had fought so hard for him, tore at her already hollowed chest. But who was she to make this decision for him?

And she found that as time progressed, her symptoms were getting worse. The initial fatigue was now a bone-weary kind of exhaustion that made it a struggle to move. Nausea made it difficult to eat. Night terrors made it difficult to sleep. She was so tense that the slightest noise in the quiet of her parent’s house made her startle and whip out her wand. The pain had intensified and collected in certain areas of her body, including her head, chest, and joints.

She spent quite some time considering the strangely inevitable descent her body and mind were making, consciously preparing for the crash, but frustrated at her inability to prevent its passing. Mind over matter was practically a principle in magic. Shouldn’t she be able to duplicate the affects in regards to her anxiety and depression? 

According to an objective part of her brain that somehow seemed removed from her hormonal state, she could intellectually understand that she spent an inordinate amount of time wallowing, and she tried to offset the habit as best as she could by keeping to her study schedule. Regardless of her lack of motivation, she still loved to learn new things, and that same objective part of her brain marveled at the perseverance of her obsessive need to collect and store information. It also helped that she had kept in contact with many of her old professors and sent owls asking questions about likely topics on the exam. Their correspondence gave her a sense of obligation and expectation that helped to push past atypical bouts of laziness.

Her attempts to practice the practical portions of her exams became increasingly derisory as time went on as the strength behind her spells waned, but she attributed that to the depression and reasoned that she could find a way around it. She poured over Potion and Charm texts looking for temporary solutions to alleviate her symptoms that would allow her to adequately cast spells for the practical’s. After a couple of weeks, she had an arsenal set up in preparation, although she didn’t take anything prior for fear that tachyphylaxis would occur and prevent them from being effective during the exam. She didn’t bother looking into long-term solutions. After all, this was temporary right? She simply needed to get these negative emotions through her system, and then she would be fine. She considered finding a therapist after the exams in order to obtain a more permanent method of treatment.

 

* * *

 

 

Soon enough the N.E.W.T. tests were due to be given, and Hermione made her way to Hogwarts in a frantic rush wrapped in four layers of clothing. She was still somehow unprepared for the chill that accompanied Scotland winters, and made her track to the castle through snow at a pained, carefully measured pace. The new Headmistress was kind enough to meet her at the doors.

“Miss Granger!” she exclaimed with a smile, ushering her through the doors and leading her to the Great Hall. This part of the castle had been fully remodeled and refurnished by this time, and Hermione had to keep from moaning in pleasure as the warmth of the castle settled into her bones. The Headmistress continued to speak as she pushed Hermione towards a round table in the center of the room with a hand behind her shoulder-blades.

“You have come just in time for dinner. It’s the Christmas Hols right now, and a majority of the students who returned for this year are home with their families. We have a few who elected to stay here, however, and a few other individuals like yourself who are set to take their N.E.W.T. exams next week.”

The Headmistress nudged her to an open seat, which Hermione observed dispassionately was situated between Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. She had spoken at both of their trials in their defense; she may not have cared for their frequent verbal assertions demonstrating their obvious bigotry and blind prejudice when she was a child, but she didn’t think it was enough to warrant a lifetime in Azkaban. While they had both been branded, they had not participated in murder, and their obvious terror and fear surrounding their roles was enough to convince her of their lack of implacability. 

And Ron’s ardent dismissal of her attempts, and irritation at her participation made it increasingly obvious how Dumbledore and the attitude of other Gryffindors had perpetuated House bias, and how those stereotypes could have contributed to Slytherin’s ongoing resentment.

So she shrugged almost subconsciously, before taking a seat with little aplomb. The weariness had settled back into her joints, and she couldn’t manage grace if she tried, even to keep what little self-respect she had left.

Both boys gave her a side-ways glance, one with a frown and a furrowed brow, the other with practiced apathy, before they continued to eat their food. She halfheartedly shoveled some mashed potatoes and broiled chicken onto her plate, grateful for the fact that she didn’t have to prepare anything. The familiar wave of nausea erupted as the smell of food wafted towards her face, and she fought through a gag reflex as she took a first bite. The second was easier.

Silence was maintained between the trio throughout dinner, but she barely noticed. There were a few whispered conversations about the latest news article, which detailed “Ground-breaking, up-to-date information about the killers at large and their plot to avenge the death of their tragic leader and their lost cause!”. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff, and rolled her eyes.

She saw several professors frowning and whispering to each other out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn’t seem to make herself care. And when the Headmistress invited her up to her office, she had to fight the urge to sigh in obvious displeasure. She just wanted to lie down. She already felt as if she had expended an excessive amount of energy. Was that too much to ask?

She followed her favorite professor up the spiral staircase leading into the Headmistress’s office, and started when she saw two familiar faces blinking down at her from within their portraits. Looking into the eyes of Severus Snape, Hermione had to fight against sinking into the memory of his death, of the gushing blood and drowning helplessness she had felt at his side. Breathing a little too quickly for comfort as she all but fell into a chair that was facing the portraits. With a concentrated effort she looked down at a neatly organized desk made of cherry wood, staged behind thick tartan curtains.

“She was right to worry,” she heard Professor Dumbledore state, and glancing up she saw him observing her with consternation while stroking the long, white hairs on his chin.

“Who knew the impertinent chit was this weak?” Professor Snape drawled behind a sneer, which turned into a concerned frown as her only response was to swing her head to look at the black gleam of his buttons with obvious indifference. “What is wrong with her?” he asked the Headmistress, who was standing to the side of her chair.

“Miss Lovegood seems to think that there was a disruption to her soul. She contacted me about it months ago, but none of the staff has managed to convince Miss Granger to visit the castle before this point. And she was responding to all of our letters, so we didn’t think the situation was dire enough to visit her current residence,” Professor McGonagall stated with obvious concern, and Hermione could feel herself frown obstinately. She was fine. Well, no she wasn’t fine, but there was nothing anyone in this room could do to help her. And it is not like they really cared anyways. She was hardly their favorite person, or someone worth consideration while they were still alive; why would that change following their deaths?

Grasping that bit of self-righteousness, she made to get up so she could leave and find a place to sleep, before she felt the Headmistress push down on her shoulders so she was forced to sit back in the seat. Hermione looked up and glared, but McGonagall did not move. “We are not done here, Miss Granger,” she stated imperviously from behind her spectacles, before moving around to sit at her desk.

Professor Snape spoke up. “The quickest way to verify whether or not this is soul damage would be to investigate the state of her magic. Her ability to cast certain spells, and the proficiency behind them would be affected if her soul was truly in a state of disruption.”

Professor McGonagall considered that for a few moments, before turning to look her in the eye. “Well, Miss Granger? Would you care to give us a performance?”

Hermione’s frown deepened. Why? Why should she have to do any of this? Her magic was fine. Or if it was less than fine, it was a result of her mental state. Other witches and wizards who have gone through acute periods of depression have had issues with their magic. In that case, how would this be an indicator?

She hadn’t realized she had spoken her objections out loud until Professor Snape retorted with, “That is because, Miss Granger, serious cases of mental disturbances have been known to rupture the soul. So first we need to evaluate how serious the disruption before we can inquire as to its origin. A levitating charm, if you please.”

Hermione glared, before retrieving her wand from her pocket and waving it at a box of utensils on the Headmistress’s desk. It barely levitated two inches off the desk for a few seconds, before gravity took hold and it dropped back down with a clang.

“Perhaps if you cast the spell verbally?” Professor Snape suggested sarcastically, his facial features set somewhere between a smirk and a sneer as he crossed his painted arms in front of chest. Hermione returned the look and resisted the urge to physically gesture her malcontent.  

Professors’ Dumbledore and McGonagall frowned at them both, before looking at each other. “This is much worse than we thought,” the Headmistress stated, before looking back at Hermione.

“What else did Miss Lovegood report?” Professor Dumbledore asked.

“Miss Granger disclosed that this started after the Final Battle,” Professor McGonagall stated.

"Did you cast any Unforgiveables?" Professor Snape asked through pursed lips. They tightened as she shook her head.

"Did someone curse you with dark magic during the battle?" Professor McGonagall inquired.

Hermione frowned and shook her head again. "No, nothing like that."

Professor Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully, before suggesting, “Perhaps a soulmate was lost on the battlefield?”

Professor Snape snorted in response. “Oh, Albus. You and your need to romanticize the most mundane of events…” he snarked. “Of course it is impossible that this could be as a result of the battle. Death, horror, and bloodshed would be enough to disturb the hearts of most men. Don’t you agree?” he continued. Hermione noted, quietly impressed, that his final question managed to sound both rhetorical and sarcastic.

“Everyone else seems to be adjusting adequately enough,” Professor Dumbledore suggested with a shrug. The flippancy of that remark disturbed Hermione enough to stare at him with no small amount of horror. Adequately enough? What about the missing family members? Orphaned children? Physical disabilities? The individuals that turned? Lavender Brown would spend the rest of her days as a werewolf. Lost inheritances, lost property, lost jobs, lost lives? And everyone had nightmares. She had been afforded glimpses of Professor Dumbledore’s tendencies to act dismissively towards casualties during the war, but she really had to wonder if they were just calculated collateral damage.

And how wasn’t she adjusting? Wasn’t she doing the best that she could? Wasn’t she here trying to forward her education?

The Headmistress seemed to share her train of thought. “I am going to pretend you did not say that, Albus,” she stated tiredly. “We could try to ascertain her soulmate, if she has one, so we can at least rule it out as a possibility.”

Professor Snape’s sneer grew more pronounced. “I didn’t realize you knew any spells that would locate a soulmate. How romantic.”

The headmistress scoffed in his direction. “This could only be the work of soulmate if they had somehow acknowledged the bond. In which case they had to have come in contact in order to establish one. And I’m sure you, in your infinite wisdom, can agree that simply making present bonds visible to the viewer greatly simplifies the process,” she sniped at him, before picking up her wand and turning towards Hermione. “Scoot your chair closer to me, my girl,” she stated.

Hermione tried to ignore the familiar flare of anxiety and a rush of nerves as she sat up and pushed the chair closer to the desk. She sat back down with no small amount of trepidation, clenching the wood armrests tightly in her hands.

“ _Singillatim Vinculum Aperire_ ,” Professor McGonagall stated as her wand moved in an intricate fashion. Immediately a rush of light was produced and several ribbons of various colors became visible, leading from her chest in various directions through the floor and ceiling. Several were broken, including two, thin, orange ribbons, and looking closer Hermione could see the names of her parents printed in her small cursive. There was another ribbon that demanded her attention, however, obvious for its much larger size and lack of color. It was also cut, and above the silky, silvery grey Hermione read a name that made her freeze, and then frown in consternation.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

Hermione looked up at Professor McGonagall. She pointed at the ribbon and asked, “What does this mean?” She had an idea, but she was desperate for some other explanation.

The Headmistress saw the broken ribbon, but didn’t elect to say anything. She leaned back in her chair for a moment, before frowning at the tip of her wand. “What did it say?” Professor Dumbledore asked from behind her, but she merely shook her head in response. “I must not have cast the spell correctly,” she muttered to herself, before turning back towards Hermione and casting a quick “ _Finite_.” She then repeated, “ _Singillatim Vinculum Aperire_.”

Again a stream of light burst from her chest, but the colors and names on the ribbons remained the same. Professor McGonagall again frowned.

“Please do away with these unnecessary theatrics, Minerva. A name, if you will,” Professor Snape stated, attempting to peer out of his portrait to see the names on the ribbons coming from Hermione’s chest.

As the Headmistress continued to sit in silence, Hermione answered in her place. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Although I have no idea why he and I would be bonded. Professor, what do these colors mean?”

Both men ignored her question, their faces displaying obvious surprise and unease. Professor Snape even muttered, “What?” as Professor McGonagall leaned closer and poked various ribbons with the end of her wand. When she touched the ribbon with Tom’s name, hurt shot across her chest and through her limbs, and she couldn’t contain an exclamation of pain. Through a wince Hermione saw McGonagall’s frown deepen as her face grew disturbed. She finally said, “These colors represent the different kinds of bonds. Familial, feudal, obligatory. In order to appear they need to be realized, to some extent. For them to have color, they need to be actualized.”

Hermione looked down at her chest and took a deep breath, her hands white and shaking. “So I had the potential of a bond with Riddle? But neither of us ever committed to it?”

Professor McGonagall nodded her head, and Hermione could see the tension emulated in her frame as her face tightened. “If you had, you would not be alive at the moment.”

Hermione let out a frustrated puff of air. “Why is it there to begin with? I’ve never even spoken to the man. Not really.”

Professor Dumbledore felt the need to interrupt. “Miss Granger, you carried his soul around your neck for weeks.”

Hermione had to resist the urge to glare at him for stating the obvious. It was just a piece of his soul, though, right? Did that even count? Obviously, she corrected herself as she looked back down at the broken ribbon. “So is this why I feel the way I do?”

Professor Snape seemed to have recovered from his disbelief, and he spoke uncertainly, “No, that shouldn’t have been enough. Not by itself. The state of your soul is much worse than I would have suspected considering your bond was never actually established.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she looked back at the recently defeated Dark Lord’s name written in her handwriting. And she wondered how in the world fate felt it possible that she could be a soulmate to someone like Tom Riddle. Where was the connection? She certainly had no ambition to become some racist, megalomaniacal dictator.

Her musings were cut short as Professor Dumbledore asked a question. “You wouldn’t happen to have been personally responsible for the destruction of any of Tom’s horcruxes?”

Hermione could only nod, and all three professors blanched. Professor Snape started nodding. “This would be why,” he stated, before giving her a look that Hermione could almost attribute as pity.

Suddenly overcome with apprehension, Hermione looked questionably at the Headmistress, who sighed and stated, “Actualized or not, knowingly or not, you destroyed a piece of a shared soul. This is why soulmates typically cannot harm one another; it is interpreted as a kind of suicide, a rejection of the self, which rebounds unpleasantly on the individual. If Riddle’s soul had been whole, you would not be alive. As it is now, your magic has turned against you and is eating you alive.”

Hermione felt her eyes widen, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Her hands dug into her jeans, where she clawed into the material with her fingernails. What? She had never heard of any such thing before. What was she to do? Was there anything she could do? She looked desperately at the three individuals giving her council, but no one offered up a solution. The feeling of dread that had flooded her body on occasion in the past few months took hold, and she desperately tried not to cried. She had not cried once throughout this entire process. For fuck’s sake, she would keep it together and not cry now. She nodded slowly, thanked her professors, and stumbled out of the room in a rush before anyone there could stop her.

She wandered down the stone hallways, attempted to breath, when she ran into someone with pale hair. She stepped back and recognized Luna, and then Ginny a few seconds later. She couldn’t bear to say anything, but numbly heard Luna chase Ginny away after looking at the state of the ribbons still streaming from her chest. Luna then grabbed the front of her robes and led her into the Prefect’s Bath. She couldn’t be bothered to ask how she knew it was there, before Luna had sat her down on a bench and grasped her fingers in her small, pale hands.

“Hermione?” Luna asked softly, her head tilted to the left. Hermione took a staggering breath as she took note of the musical tilt in Luna’s voice. She really was a lovely creature, if a bit odd.

Hermione shook her head, before stating, “It’s all over for me. Apparently my magic is eating me alive. They didn’t give me a prognosis, but I suspect I do not have much time left.” She looked down at the hands grasping hers, and was surprised to see that they were about the same shade of pale.

Luna squeezed them in attempts to get her attention back to her face. “All is not lost, Hermione. You simply need to change your fate.”

Hermione could not resist the frown, although she stopped the sneer. Just barely. “Isn’t that a paradox, Luna? If you can control it, can it really be called fate?”

Luna laughed a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Hermione. You would not be the one in control.”

 

* * *

 

To be continued…


	2. Pro Salute Animӕ (For the Welfare of the Soul)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna takes charge.

**Chapter 2: Pro Salute Animӕ (For the Welfare of the Soul)**

 

* * *

 

 

Tom Riddle was easily Margaret’s favorite toddler. He wasn’t prone to tantrums, kept to himself and therefore did not require a lot of supervision, and was quiet. Almost unusually quiet. She heard Mrs. Cole and another supervisor discuss his behavior, and they considered whether or not he was mentally deficient. He had yet to speak, and did not seem to take an interest in most toys.

Margaret wasn’t so sure. While he didn’t say anything out loud, he always seemed to be paying attention to what others were saying. She also witnessed Tom occasionally follow directives given to other children, although she couldn’t state for sure whether that inconsistency was because he didn’t understand what they were saying, or because he did understand, but chose not to listen.

He had been bullied by a few older boys a few times. On one notable occasion one boy sat on his legs, as another stood over him and repeatedly hit Tom in the face. Margaret had been quick to break the trio of boys up, and had picked Tom up and cuddled him to her chest. Despite the tears streaming down his cheeks, he had seemed immune to her affections. Not that she had held him very often in the couple of years that she had been looking after him, but most children at least attempted to reciprocate, or tried to burrow their way into her chest. Tom just looked up at her in what she would have ascribed as resentment in an older child’s face, and pushed back in her arms until she released him back to the ground. He stared at her for a moment, before walking away.

Well, that suited Margaret just fine. Even after familiarizing herself at the Orphanage over the past couple of years, she was still rather uncomfortable with overly physical demonstrations of affection or comfort. She did it mostly out of a sense of desperation when the noise of their screaming cries became too much for her to handle.

Still, she was happy to be out of the room of infants. Squalling babies was not something she could adapt to with any kind of contentment. Things were looking up, especially after she heard Mrs. Cole talk about a group of nuns that had elected to come and teach some of the children to read. Margaret had never had the opportunity to learn her letters, and wondered with some excitement whether or not they would be willing to teach her too.

 

* * *

 

 

Luna squeezed her hands to draw attention back to her face. “All is not lost, Hermione. You simply need to change your fate.”

Hermione could not resist the frown, although she stopped the sneer. Just barely. “Isn’t that a paradox, Luna? If you can control it, can it really be called fate?”

Luna laughed a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Hermione. You would not be the one in control.”

Hermione did not bother to keep skepticism from dominating her facial features. She would not be in control? So how in the world was she supposed to change her fate? This entire conversation was turning into an unnecessary headache, and Hermione felt foolish for hoping Luna could employ a bit of pragmatism.

Luna seemed to sense her dilemma. “You can initiate the start of the change. But you will not be able to control what takes place after the beginning.”

That actually made sense, although it made Hermione feel incredibly wary. She hated not being in control of herself, or her immediate surroundings. But more than that, a lack of control in her circumstance could have serious ramifications. Would she be willing to risk the consequences? “Wouldn’t that be too dangerous to seriously consider? We barely won the war, Luna. Wouldn’t prolonging my life require guaranteeing his survival? Think of all of the people that could die as a result.” She shook her head as if to emphasize her point. Of course she was afraid of death, but could she really be so selfish?

Luna’s slight smile did not waver. “Some things are meant to happen. But you shouldn’t worry. That’s not the way this works.”

Hermione frowned. “How what works?”

“Changing your fate. And changing his. But first you need to discover what you actually want.” Luna pulled her up by her hands, and led her to the back of the Prefect’s bath. They passed the empty tub and stopped in front of a familiar stained glass window depicting a curious mermaid. Hermione frowned, and started to pull at Luna’s hands. Everything coming out of her mouth sounded enigmatic and nonsensical, and wrapped in the tight embrace that was her self-pity, Hermione just wanted to sleep...

She was stopped as the blonde witch tightened her grip and turned to her with an uncharacteristic seriousness in her eyes and a tightened, grim set in her lips.

“Hermione. You are my friend. I value you as a friend, and will do my best to help you, but there are some things you need to seriously consider. First, the current state of Tom’s soul. According to Harry, Professor Dumbledore informed him in death that Tom was stuck in limbo as some stunted, deformed creature. This is what happens to individuals with a soul that has been split open like his was. Like yours is. If you do not do something to fix this, now while you still can, you will be cursed to an eternal non-existence.”

Hermione’s grip tightened as all of the breath left her body in a whoosh. And then she started to hyperventilate as she considered Luna’s statement. She had not wanted to die, but had been somewhat relieved at the thought that the end of her life would bring an end to the pain and anxiety. But what she described was much worse. Eternal loneliness, despair, and agony… It wasn’t fair. What had she done to deserve _this_?

She felt warm tears finally fall from her eyes before Luna let go of her hands and grasped her chin. She brought Hermione’s eyes up to meet hers.

“You can be brilliant, Hermione. And brave, and loyal, and other pleasant things, but you are also overly critical and closed-minded. You need to have faith. You need to trust yourself. Trust magic. That is the only way you are going to be able to come out of this still alive.” Hermione stared into Luna’s bright blue eyes through her tears. She knew she wasn’t perfect. She was too independent, too obstinate, and uncomfortable adopting ideas she thought were too esoteric in nature, but she was willing to try. What choice did she have?

Hermione nodded, overwhelmed, and Luna gave her a brilliant smile before turning around to face the mermaid. She stated in a stilted voice that echoed off the surrounding stone, “I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living.” The mermaid nodded, before one of the windows beneath her opened like a door. Luna wasted no time grabbing Hermione’s hand and dragging her inside a darkly lit space. Moving closer Hermione could see light from behind them bounce off of a mirror.

“The Mirror of Erised!” Hermione exclaimed once she was close enough to recognize the runes and script of Latin shining on the edge of the frame. As she took a few steps closer to the magical artifact in scholarly awe, Hermione acknowledged the fact that, ever since hearing about Harry’s and Ron’s experiences during First year, she had been very curious to discover what her greatest desire might be.

She paused now to give herself a few moments to consider the idea, and couldn’t come up with an answer. Which frightened her more than she would have suspected. What happened to her ambitions? Her drive? Her direction?

“How did you know this was here?” she asked Luna in an off-hand manner, clenching her fists to hide her apprehension as she looked around the room.

“The castle told me,” Luna stated, giving her a side-glance that was filled with expectation.

Hermione looked back at her in surprise. “The castle told you?” she repeated with a furrowed brow. She knew the castle was sentient to some extent; little else could explain the unpredictability of the staircases, or the castle’s ability to defend itself. She did not realize that it was capable of actually speaking to students, however.

Luna nodded. “It speaks to those who take the time to listen.”

Hermione acknowledged the slight with a sigh. “Is there any way I could learn how?”

Luna nodded again. “That is why we are here.” She walked over to the mirror, gazed at her reflection with pursed lips and a curious tilt in her head. It was only a few moments before she gave a wistful sigh and moved to the right side of the enchanted artifact. “Your turn.”

Hermione shuffled over with trepidation, oddly comforted that Luna had looked into the mirror too, and stood in front of the mirror stiffly. For a few long moments she didn’t see anything other than her reflection. Then, slowly the color came back into her cheeks, her hair sprang to life in its previous luster, and her figure filled. Harry and Ron appeared behind her, happy and filled with life. Her parents stood behind them, their awareness and unconditional acceptance obvious in their smiles. She relaxed and looked back at Luna. She should have guessed.

Luna’s expression did not change. “The next time you look at the mirror I want you to think about this. Tom Riddle is your soulmate. You _need_ to find a way to reconcile the slight in your soul if you are to survive.”

Hermione frowned, and slowly looked back over at the mirror, Luna’s words reverberating in her mind. She wasn’t sure what to anticipate being able to see, really, but then-

Her reflection disappeared, and there was a dark haired man. Tom Riddle as he must appear in limbo; his body stood in barely held together pieces as he grimaced through an agony Hermione could feel dull in her bones. He appeared to be fighting against a sandstorm made up of black particles, using a fleshy piece of bleeding arm to shield his face and struggling through what looked to be an unrelenting wind. The image snapped back to a visage of herself standing before the Veil inside the Department of Mysteries. The Hermione in the mirror shoved potions and a small string tie pouch inside of her much-abused handbag. Someone shot a spell at her back, and real time Hermione absentmindedly recognized it as the same spell Professor McGonagall had cast in her office. Then mirror-Hermione, ribbons pouring from her chest, took a familiar cloak in hand and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her body disappeared. Tying Harry’s Invisibility cloak around her neck, she shot into the Veil, the last glimpse of her chin disappearing as the hood fell forward with the momentum.

Real-time Hermione took a shuttered breath and a step back, and almost immediately the vision ended and she once again saw her reflection. Stunned tired eyes framed around lanky curls stared back at her. She pulled at her pale cheeks, considering what she had seen, before turning back to Luna and reporting the events.

She and Luna attempted to work out what she had done. They agreed that the Deathly Hallow supposedly powerful enough to evade death had probably prevented her from immediately dying as she passed through the Veil. They imagined that the ribbons could be used to help guide Hermione to Tom inside of Limbo, and that perhaps the potions could restore or regenerate his body for travel. But what about the state of his soul? Or hers? Which was their entire quandary, really.

“Perhaps sympathetic magic could be used? Something tied to the power of your bond?”

Hermione snorted derisively. “Is there power in a bond that hasn’t been actualized?”

Luna’s eyes were wide as she frowned. “If there wasn’t a power to it, then why are you in pain?”

Excellent point.

“And there is no reason why it couldn’t be actualized when you finally meet.”

Hermione frowned, more than a little anxious thinking about their eventual confrontation. Although the act of actualizing a bond did sound like it carried the potential to salvage the status of their souls…

“Also to consider,” Luna absentmindedly circled her chin and then her lips with a swirling finger, “How will you return? We can’t know for sure that the ribbons will lead you back through the Veil. After all, we will be on a different plane.”

Hermione considered the fact that her ribbon to Tom Riddle in this time and place appeared cut, and considered the point valid. “That is a very good point.”

“Do you have any ideas about how you could work around it?”

Hermione shook her head as an old, but familiar wave of grim determination swept her tired body. “No, but I have an idea about where we could go to find out.”

“The library?” Luna guessed with a small smirk and half an eyebrow raised.

“The library,” Hermione repeated with a stubborn tilt of her chin.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione was panting and clutching her chest by the time she made it to the library doors. She had forgotten how much energy was required to walk up all of those stairs…

She knew the library was only open for another two hours, but she was anxious to get started while she was still feeling motivated. Which didn’t happen nearly as often as it used to, unfortunately.

And it was oddly comforting, to fall back on a role that had taken up so much of her time at Hogwarts. Frantic research on a variety of subjects, in the midst of exams, in order to avoid situations of mortal peril...

She gave Madam Pince a nod of acknowledgement as she pushed her way inside, and soon had a rising stack of texts perched on the edge of a nearby table. The titles included _Beyond the Veil_ , _Credible Attempts to Cheat Death, An Encyclopedia of Magical Artifacts Throughout History, At Death’s Door, The Fractured Soul,_ and _A Detailed Enquiry into Magical Bonds_. From the restricted section, which she entered without even bothering to look at Madam Pince for approval, was _Mafteah Shelomoh, The Basic Manuel for the Enterprising Necromancer, Au Bord de la Mort, Spiritus Pascens_ , _Binding Rituals_ , _Raising the Dead_ , and a small, nondescript text simply titled _Limbo_.

She also grabbed an extremely old copy of _Lapidario_ , as she was currently considering the magical applications of different stones in order to store magic, and _Of the Supreme Mysteries of Nature_ , a grimoire by Paracelsus, a Swiss magician from the sixteenth century who laid the foundation of properly identifying and distinguishing light and dark magic.

She found a narrow table in the back, behind the archives, and took a few sheets of parchment, an ink well, and a quill out her bag. She had only just started, skimming through the texts in an initial assessment to determine which would best suit her purposes and how she would organize her notes, when she heard footsteps behind her.

She didn’t bother to turn around as two boys sat down on either side of her.

“A bit of recreational reading, Granger?” Malfoy drawled, and turning towards him she could see he was looking at the titles of her gathered books with interest.

She heard a scoff on the other side of her. Nott’s right eyebrow raised as he addressed Malfoy. “Could this really be called recreational?” he stated sardonically, picking up _The Basic Manuel for the Enterprising Necromancer_. He looked towards Hermione. “Do you raise the dead as a pastime?”

Hermione scowled, and snatched the book out of his hands. “It’s none of your business.”

“Of course not,” Nott retorted sarcastically, and a few moments of awkward silence passed.

Malfoy picked up her quill, and once he had her attention, stated with nonchalance, “Did you know that I was scheduled to be Kissed?”

Hermione started back in surprise. What? Draco Malfoy may have been an arrogant, peevish prat, but being threatened and coerced into participating in the Dark Lord’s schemes was hardly worth the obliteration of his soul. She wasn’t thrilled about his actions during their sixth year, but she could understand that he was under a lot of duress, that he never actually killed anyone, and that he was remorseful for his actions. Her face twisted in outrage. “Bullocks,” she muttered in disbelief.

Malfoy seemed appreciative of her indignation on his behalf. “Well, with Professor Snape and all of the other more sensational Death Eaters dead, the Ministry was running out of guilty parties to blame that would appease the public. They apparently wanted a hand in enforcing the justice.”

She supposed that made sense on a strategic level; the Ministry would need an eye-catching demonstration of power to validate their control, especially considering their recent history of instability and rampant corruption. And she knew they were making a demonstrated effort to address the abundant leniencies that had been characteristic of trials during the first Wizarding War (Sirius Black aside).

Still. That Kingsley would allow such a thing.

The blonde wizard continued to speak in an overtly flippant manner. “I understand you worked with my lawyer in creating my defense?”

Hermione nodded, her brow furrowed. Well, sort of. She hardly took the reins. She just met with the mulish, but clever auburn man in order to plan her statements and delivery. Although she might have given him a text of obscure laws pertaining to purebloods, and had bookmarked all of the impertinent bits… although that much assistance was considered the bare minimum for her.

“And you encouraged Potter to speak up for me at the stand?”

Hermione frowned, before nodding again, reluctantly. It was true that she organized Harry’s statements, but it wasn’t as if she had to convince him. Harry was grateful for the assistance he received from the Malfoy’s towards the end, however small. And in his relief at being alive, was more than willing to let bygones be bygones in many cases.

“According to my lawyer, it was only through your interference that I was saved. And the presence of war heroes speaking in my defense-,” Malfoy said the words war heroes as if tasting something foul, “-swayed the opinion of the public so I am no longer being harrassed.”

Her hands tightened against the wood of the table, her frown deepening. Where was he going with this? “Well, I am glad you were able to get off. You didn’t deserve the Kiss.”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered in response to that statement. “Regardless, there have been unanticipated consequences.”

A now unfortunately familiar sense of dread settled in her stomach, creating knots. “Oh?” she asked, but it sounded as little more than an exclamation of air.

Malfoy nodded a few times, somber in his demeanor. “I owe you a life-debt.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her mouth open. “What?”

Malfoy took in her surprise with a calculated look, as if attempting to assess her sincerity. “You do know what that means, right?”

Hermione bobbed her head weakly in assent. “We are bonded. You receive a strong magical compulsion to settle the debt, and experience discomfort if I am in any kind of condition that would disallow the obligation from taking place.” She looked down at her thin, twitching fingers and considered the affect that the current condition of her soul had on him. She doubted that the feeling was pleasant.

Malfoy’s tone darkened. “That’s right. Then perhaps you could explain to me why I have been in a near constant state of pain since being released?”

Not pleasant at all, apparently. But Hermione was at a loss for what to say.

“I originally thought it had something to do with exposure to dark magic during the Final Battle,” he continued in the wake of her silence. “That I was suffering from some stray curse. I went to Madame Pomfrey to conduct an evaluation. It revealed nothing. And it was only after a fucking inquisition that I was able to figure out that it could be a side-effect to the life-debt.”

Hermione remained silent.

Malfoy slammed her quill down on the table beside her, his face tense and upset. “So what is it? There is obviously something wrong with you. You walked into Hogwarts a few hours ago looking like Death itself ate you and spat you back out. Your magical presence appears to be practically nonexistent, and your reading selection reeks of some surely reprehensible plot underfoot. Well?”

Hermione heads tilted, her attention caught on one of his observations. “I have a magical presence?”

Malfoy snarled and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Nott spoke up from behind both of them. “As Pure-Bloods we have been raised to be magically aware of the people around us. I am sure you are cognizant that different wizards and witches have more or less raw energy, and that this energy usually increases the older you get, or during the course of certain magical practices. It is that energy which we can sense. Yours likes to settle on her head and in your fingertips.”

Hermione could well remember a time when she could feel sparks of magic zip through her curls, or around her fingers, and nodded in understanding. There was another moment of awkward silence, which Malfoy interrupted with impatience.

“You are not answering my question. I feel like I have a right to know,” Malfoy insisted, almost pouting. Hermione’s lips curled into a scowl at the presumption. It wasn’t as if she knew what would happen at his trial. And there were years of animosity and unpleasantness that made her disinclined to be open about her situation. She opened her mouth to tell him off, when she heard another set of foot-steps heading over to them.

All three of them turned to see Luna Lovegood step towards their table. She plopped herself down in the seat next to Nott’s without any ceremony. “Hello Theodore! It is so good to see you again! And Draco!”

Both boys were confused about what to do, and obviously off-kilter. Hermione knew that both Slytherins had had to handle an imprisoned Luna during the war, and it didn’t seem as if they had talked since. Her friendly attitude was probably disconcerting. Hermione felt a little vindicated, in light of Malfoy’s questioning, and was grateful to Luna for the additional support. “Luna?” she asked, pulling her quill out of Malfoy’s reach with a quick glare.

“I came to see how the research was going. I’m not surprised to see Draco, though. I saw his name sticking out of your chest earlier.”

Hermione blinked. And then mentally cursed herself for not paying attention and taking the time to read all of the bonds she was responsible for.

Luna continued, a faint smile on her lips. “Have you told them about the slupnotts?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, any feelings of gratefulness disappearing. Please Luna, she tried to communicate with the girl silently. I need to figure out how to deal with this by myself before I inform the world.

“Slupnotts?” Nott asked politely, still obviously perturbed with the girl at his left.

“Magical maggots that eat away at the edges of a torn soul,” Luna stated, the smile still on her face.

Malfoy had recovered at this point. “Right…” he drawled sarcastically. “Would you like to go somewhere else to talk about this, Granger?” The tone in his voice promised horrible things should said talking not occur.

Luna laughed. “Silly boy, we’re talking right here.”

Malfoy’s obvious skepticism was heartening. Perhaps she could still escape none the wiser. She started to stand and opened her mouth, an excuse in waiting, when both boys pulled her back down. Hermione glowered in discontentment.

“But you have told them, right? That Tom Riddle is your soulmate?”

Both boys started in surprise, before looking at both girls critically. Hermione did her best to pretend the news was nonsense, but could tell from their expressions that she had not done a very good job.

Nott grimaced. “As in the Dark Lord?”

Hermione was reasonably sure it was a rhetorical question, but Luna answered anyway. “Do you know of any other Tom Riddle?”

Nott’s gaze turned accusatory as he faced Hermione. “You bonded with the Dark Lord? When? How are you still alive?” He stopped and his eyes widened as if he just realized something, “Is _he_ still alive?” Malfoy remained silent, although it sounded like he was breathing faster than might be healthy.

Hermione snapped back. “No! I guarantee Riddle is dead. And I did not bond with him! It’s not as if I go around trying to bind unsuspecting Dark wizards! The bond was never committed. Professor McGonagall said it was just realized.”

Malfoy spoke. “The Headmistress knows?”

Hermione responded, still irritated. “She cast a spell. _Singillatim Vinculum Aperire.”_

Both boys nodded in understanding and obvious recognition of the spell. “So why are we in pain? That’s what I’m feeling right? Your pain?” Malfoy asked, his face was still pale and his fists clenched.

Hermione ground her fingers into her chest, feeling subdued. “I personally destroyed a piece of his soul.”

Both wizards cringed.

“Ah,” Malfoy muttered, looking down at his fingers on the table, his face turning ashen.

Nott gestured to the stack of books in front of her. “So what are you going to do about it? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

Her silence seemed to confirm something for both of them. Malfoy’s face contorted. Nott rose out of his seat in anger.

“You’re bringing him back?” Nott’s voice was a seething whisper, and he took a quick look around to verify that they were alone before he continued. “Are you insane?”

Luna spoke up defensively, frowning. “She’s changing her fate.”

“Sure,” Nott sneered, condescending. “She’ll change lives surely. With death forwarded by a madman.”

Hermione ignored them and turned to her right. Malfoy looked up and met her gaze, his face tense. She reached over, picked up the copy of _Binding Rituals_ , and slid it across the table in front of him.

Malfoy looked at the title of the book, and then back up at her face. “You intend to bind him?”

Nott watched the two of them from over Hermione’s shoulder. “Oh for the love of Merlin… you’re a fool, Granger,” he spat out.

Hermione didn’t turn around. “What would you do if you were doomed to an eternal, torturous non-existence?”

Malfoy winced. “If I help you out with this our debt will be settled.” It was a statement that sounded like a question.

Hermione nodded. “Of course. If I had my way, you never would have been bonded to me in the first place.”

Malfoy snorted, muttering with a scowl, “That makes two of us,” under his breathe. He turned to fully face her. “So what can I do to help?”

Hermione frowned and pulled at her hair, feeling frazzled. “I need to figure out some of the details of my plan first. It would be helpful if you could look it over after I’m finished, or help me find texts if none of these prove to be helpful.”

Malfoy nodded. “I can do that.”

Luna stood up abruptly. “Wrackspurts. I need to get going. See you tomorrow Hermione?”

“Of course, Luna.”

The Ravenclaw fairly glided away. Nott shook his head. “That one is madder than a bag of ferrets.”

Malfoy glared.

“What?” Nott asked, feigning ignorance at the insinuation.

Hermione sighed.

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was shattered. He dragged his sore body inside of Grimmauld Place with a groan, stretching his tired muscles. Auror training was demanding, and spending all of his time with an angry, sullen Ron was incredibly draining.

 Unfortunately, the fact that Harry was having an easier time on practice raids due to his fast reflexes and better spell-power did not help things in the slightest. He had spent a lot of time with Ron, and was quick to recognize when the red-headed boy was feeling slighted and resentful. Harry had hoped that being with Hermione would give Ron a stronger sense of self, and help him to recognize and take pride in his own strengths. But Hermione and Ron had not lasted more than a couple of months, and Harry had taken the brunt of his friend’s depression and insecurity.

Harry had tried his best to cheer Ron up. He had tried to distract him with the occasional Quidditch game, and a night out at the pub on the weekends. He had tried to bolster his friend’s self-confidence with frequent chess games and talk of girls at the Ministry that he was sure had given Ron a second look. He had hoped that Ron would understand that he was here for him, and would try to commiserate with him instead of taking out his anger on him.

But Harry’s success, and his obviously happy relationship with Ginny was making that impossible. A resentful Ron stewed on his grievances. A resentful Ron was unnecessarily difficult and belligerent. A resentful Ron was so wrapped up in self-pity that he didn’t realize what a prat he was acting to the people around him.

Harry missed Hermione fiercely. She had always been there for him and looked after his best interests. She was always on his side during times like this. And whenever she was miffed about something and took it out on Harry, she always came to find him hours later to apologize. She had stayed with him no matter the circumstances. Even when she had been starved, and tortured, and so afraid she couldn’t stop trembling….

It hurt Harry to think of Hermione. The last time he had seen her she looked as if she were about to fall apart; her eyes large inside a pale face, her hair stringy and limp, and whatever weight she had gained since the end of the war was lost. He had been disturbed to see her fingers shake almost compulsively, and had quickly made small-talk and hasty promises before leaving abruptly. The guilt was almost too much to handle. He assumed she was still suffering from exposure to the Cruciatus curse, and blamed himself for the misery etched into her forehead.

This situation with Ron was just another complication. Ginny had clearly taken the side of his brother. She could see how enamored he was with the curly-haired witch, and couldn’t understand why Hermione didn’t reciprocate. She assumed there was someone else, and had audibly considered some of the Slytherins he and Hermione had defended in trials.

Harry had defended her. He trusted her to have been upfront with Ron if that had been the case. Besides, he had seen the way she looked only a couple of months ago. She didn’t seem to be in the condition to hide scandalous romantic liaisons. But he was under a lot of pressure from both Weasleys, so hadn’t sought her out.

He knew she didn’t hold anything against him, but that almost made it worse. Still, she certainly deserved some show of support. He knew she was about to take her N.E.W.T. exams, and would probably be in a state of frenzy, not bothering to break for silly things like sleep or food while she was studying… He was worried, but he was afraid to disrupt his relationship with Ginny and Ron. After all, they were his family.

Harry’s musings were interrupted by a firm knock on the door. He would be lying if didn’t admit that he really hoped his visitor was not Ron.

He opened the door, and was surprised to see a pale head framed around glittering hoops.

“Luna? I thought you were at Hogwarts?”

Luna pushed herself into the house with little ceremony, and Harry frowned, trying to remember how she knew how to get into his house. During the latter parts of the war she stayed at Shell Cottage- when had she come to Grimmauld Place? Was it during the victory celebration?

The girl made herself at home on his couch in the sitting room, and Harry let out a short bark of laughter at her audacity before settling in opposite of her.

“How are you doing, Luna?” he asked, running his hand messily through his hair.

Luna smiled. “I’m doing just fine. School this year had proven to be very interesting.”

Harry nodded. “Well, that’s good. Why did you come to visit?” He stopped, then quickly added, “Not that I’m not happy you are here and all…”

Luna’s smile widened at his discomfort. “I’m here to talk about Hermione.”

Harry grimaced. He should have guessed. They had been together the last time he saw the girl. “What about Hermione?”

“She needs you, Harry.”

Harry clenched his fists. “It can’t be that bad,” he insisted. But the worry and concern he felt rushed through his chest. How bad was it? Had she worked herself into a state? Was Luna here because Hermione was in the Hospital Wing?

Luna stared straight into his eyes, and Harry was taken aback, trying to remember the last time she had seemed so… down to earth. “She’s dying.”

Harry sucked in a breath in surprise. What? Dying? He frowned in disbelief. If that was the case, he would have heard something about it, surely?

Although he had purposely not sought her out- what if she thought he was no longer interested in her life? His brow wrinkled in frustration. They were supposed to be past this. The war was over! They had survived, right? And he had lost so many people. Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, Fred, even Snape… he couldn’t lose Hermione, he couldn’t. Not her. He croaked out words, “Why? How?”

Luna looked sympathetic at his distress. “Her soulmate was killed during the Final Battle. Her soul is tearing itself apart.”

Harry could feel angry, frustrated tears pool up in the corner of his eyes that he swiped away with the palm of his hand in impatience. He was so tired. “Who? Fred?” He tried to remember all of the people who had died, and which of them he could imagine with Hermione. The list was not very long.

Luna was somber. “It was Riddle, Harry.”

Harry scowled in disbelief, shaking his head. “Riddle, as in Tom Riddle? As in Lord Voldemort? There is no way that… _thing_ could be Hermione’s soulmate,” he spat out with vehemence. He was so _sick_ of that piece of shit being a part of his life. He was so ready for his influence to be over, but this? What kind of sick joke was this? That Hermione would be forced to actively kill her soulmate?

Although she wasn’t forced, a dark whisper reminded him from the back of his mind, was she? She was only involved in the war because of you. She would never had come face to face with that megalomaniac otherwise. 

Harry’s face twisted in guilt. This was all his fault, wasn’t it? She was suffering, she was _dying_ , because of him. It was Sirius all over again. He must not be meant to have friends or any close relationships. Otherwise why would this keep happening to him?

“Harry.” Luna’s voice was soft, and he realized, right next to head.

“Harry,” she repeated again once she had his attention, “this is not your fault. This is nobody’s fault. And Hermione has a plan. But she needs your help. She needs your support. You are her best friend.”

Harry took a deep breath at that. He knew that, of course he knew. She was his best friend too. He loved her like a sister, and wanted more than anything for her to be happy and healthy. His eyes met Luna’s, the gaze behind his glasses serious. “She is really dying?”

Luna nodded.

“Well, I need to see her then,” Harry got up out of the couch and made his way to the door. Luna stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Harry, you are barely standing. How are you going to apparate? And I didn’t see any Thestrals outside, so…” Luna stated, pulling at his shoulder so he would turn around. “I suggest you get a good night’s sleep, eat a nice, filling breakfast, and come in the morning.”

Harry tried to remember when Luna had ever man-handled him, and looked at Luna in confusion. She was behaving remarkably forward, wasn’t she?

“Tomorrow morning?” Luna repeated around a smirk.

Harry nodded. “I suppose you are right. Will she be alright?” He frowned again in worry. He wondered how she was dealing with all of this. After all, he wasn’t the one who found out he was soulbound to a Dark Lord.

“It will be fine. Although you should think about what we are going to do about Ginny. I love her, but she is not going to take this well.” Harry nodded. Not only did this somewhat prove her speculations (only somewhat, mind), but she had always been touchy about Riddle since the Diary Incident.

“I will try to think of something,” Harry promised.

As Luna made her way out of the house, Harry sank into the couch in an exhausted heap. He wanted so desperately to relax… When would this part of his life finally be over?

 

* * *

 

 

To be continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think? Hope you enjoyed the update~


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